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About Laurie Boris

Laurie Boris has been writing fiction for almost thirty years and is the award-winning author of eight novels. When not playing with the universe of imaginary people in her head, she's a freelance copyeditor and enjoys baseball, reading, and avoiding housework. She lives in New York's lovely Hudson Valley.

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The crumbling house in the woods was enveloped by vegetation and time. Edgar found it while he still worked for the government; he’d been tracking a runaway and noticed the anomaly. There’d been no heat signature in the mound of overgrowth, other than small blips which might have belonged to chipmunks or squirrels, so he’d moved on. But when the emergency had passed, he’d returned. He poked around the vines, some as thick as his wrist, until he found a window. Dull with centuries of dirt and

I went a little dark for this week’s flash fiction, but I couldn’t help myself.
Jake had been out of the killing business since the kids came along. When first he saw his little Emma, so pink and vulnerable and innocent, and felt the crushing weight of his responsibility for her, he told Leo he wanted done. “I’ll miss ya,” the big man said, as they downed one last shot in the seedy Orlando bar they’d called home, “but I get where you’re comin’ from. Still. A girl. Girls are expensive.

At o’dark thirty, John stood tall in his black vest, his sturdy boots, shoulder to shoulder with the rest of them as they were given their final orders. Again his stomach punched at him. Again his higher functions punched back, harder. Telling him that he’d signed on for this mission. That it had to be done and done right. This behavior could no longer be tolerated. And someone had to stand up for it. It might as well be him and his loyal soldiers.
The captain continued to bark. Talki

The vitriol settled into the stained linoleum. Still, neither of us moved. Ashley focused on the dripping faucet behind me; I took a sudden interest in my shoelaces. It should have been the end of the argument. The part where we’d take a deep breath and agree to disagree, like mature people. My original aim had been simple, or so I’d thought. I’d hoped to convince her not to worry so much. The time we had left on this planet was limited. Why spend it consumed with anxiety?
Yet I bumbl

Where I talk about food and offer you a free book.
Shelley Workinger has a cool blog called “But What Are They Eating?” where she invites authors to talk about—you guessed it—what their characters actually have on their plates. Food for thought, as they say. She’s also been nice enough to have me back for a guest post about the foodiest of my food-laden novels, The Kitchen Brigade. I hope you’ll visit my post on Shelley’s blog, drop a comment, share the love, and maybe subscribe.

It’s not the first time Talisman has come across a human child in this part of his territory. But the sour scent tells him the girl is not well. She’s curled on her side beneath the scratching tree, her dark hair dull and matted, her eyes glassy, her chest nearly still beneath her thin, dirty clothing. Talisman bats at her with a soft paw the way he’s seen the humans do; the only reaction is a delayed shift of her eyes to his. He wills her to hold his gaze. One second. Two seconds. Her lids t

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been doing some preliminary research for a historical novel that’s been nagging at me for a while. I learned that in the early twentieth century, there were about 10,000 kosher delicatessens in Brooklyn. Now there are just a few dozen. This fact inspired a story for #2minutesGo this week. Happy Passover or Easter or Sunday, whichever you celebrate.
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The masonry and wood in the basement smelled like decades of everything it had absorbed: co

This week’s flash fiction was inspired by current events. Warning: weaponized political satire in operation. Proceed at your own risk. Don’t try this at home. And if the men in black suits show up at my door, it’s been nice knowing you.
——
Forty-four leaned back in his computer chair, rubbing his temples.
“Honey.” Michelle had just come in from the garden. “What’s wrong? Joe again?”
It was easy enough to guess; Obama-and-Joe internet memes slid one after the ot

April is a busy month. It’s National Poetry Month; Autism Awareness Month, Financial Literacy Month. It’s also Indie April, and Charles French is one of many authors spreading the word on Twitter (#IndieApril) and elsewhere about supporting indie authors and their work. You might want to check out Charles’s work and those who’ve commented on his blog. Happy reading!
charles french words reading and writing
(https://pixabay.com)
On Twitter, there is a movement called #I